“Doing your homework?”
“In a way, yes,” Ben Ross replied without looking up from his books.
On top of one of the books Christy noticed an empty glass and an empty plate with a few crumbs from what once must have been a sandwich.
“Well, at least you remembered to feed yourself,” she said, picking up the dish and placing it in the sink.
Her husband didn’t answer. His nose was still stuck in the book.
“I bet you’re just dying to find out how badly I beat Betty Lewis tonight,” she said, kidding him.
Ben looked up. “What?”
“I said I beat Betty Lewis tonight,” Christy told him.
Her husband had a blank look on his face.
Christy laughed. “Betty Lewis. You know, the Betty Lewis who I’ve never won more than two games in a set from. I beat her tonight. In two sets. Six-four; seven-five.”
“Oh, uh, that’s very good,” Ben said absently. He looked back down at the book and started reading again.
Someone else might have been offended by his apparent rudeness, but Christy wasn’t. She knew Ben was the kind of person who got involved with things. Not just involved, but utterly absorbed in them to the point where he tended to forget that the rest of the world existed. She’d never forget the time in graduate school when he got interested in American Indians. For months he was so wrapped up in Indians that he forgot about the rest of his life. On weekends he’d visit Indian reservations or spend hours looking for old books in dusty libraries. He even started bringing Indians home for dinner! And wearing deerskin moccasins! Christy used to get up some mornings wondering if he was going to put on war paint.
But that was the way Ben was. One summer she’d taught him to play bridge, and within a month not only was he a better bridge player than she, but he was driving her crazy, insisting that they play bridge every minute of the day. He only calmed down after he won a local bridge tournament and ran out of worthy competitors. It was almost frightening, the way he lost himself in each new adventure.
Christy looked at the books scattered about the kitchen table and sighed. “What is it this time?” she asked. “The Indians again? Astronomy? The behavioral characteristics of killer whales?”
When her husband didn’t answer, she picked up some of the books. “The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich? Hitler’s Youth?” She frowned. “What are you doing, cramming for a degree in dictatorship?”
“Not funny,” Ben muttered without looking up.
“You’re right,” Christy admitted.
Ben Ross sat back and looked at his wife. “One of my students asked me a question today that I couldn’t answer.”
“So what else is new?” Christy asked.
“But I don’t think I ever saw the answer written anywhere,” Ben told her. “It just may be an answer they have to learn for themselves.”
Christy Ross nodded. “Well, I can see what kind of night this is going to be,” she said. “Just remember, tomorrow you have to be awake enough to teach an entire day of classes.”
Her husband nodded. “I know, I know.”
Christy Ross bent down and kissed him on his forehead. “Try not to wake me. If you come to sleep tonight.”
CHAPTER 5
The next day the students drifted in slowly as usual. Some took their seats, others stood around talking. Robert Billings was by the windows, tying knots in the blind cords. While he was doing that, Brad, his incessant tormentor, walked past and patted him on the back, sticking a small sign that said “kick me” to his shirt.
It looked like just another typical day in history class until the kids noticed that their teacher had written in large letters across the blackboard: STRENGTH THROUGH DISCIPLINE.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” someone asked.
“I’ll tell you just as soon as you’re all seated,” Ben Ross answered. When the kids were all in their places, he began to lecture. “Today I am going to talk to you about discipline.”
A collective groan went up from the seated students. There were some teachers whose classes you knew would be a drag, but most of the students expected Ross’s history class to be pretty good—which meant no dumb lectures on stuff like discipline.
“Hold it,” Ben told them. “Before you make a judgment, give this a chance. It could be exciting.”
“Oh sure,” someone said.
“Oh sure is right,” Ben told his students. “Now when I talk about discipline, I’m talking about power,” he said, making a fist to accentuate the point. “And I’m talking about success. Success through discipline. Is there anyone here who isn’t interested in power and success?”
“Probably Robert,” Brad said. A bunch of kids snickered.
“Now wait,” Ben told them. “David, Brian, Eric, you play football. You already know it takes discipline to win.”
“That must be why we haven’t won a game in two years,” Eric said, and the class laughed.
It took their teacher a few moments to calm them down again. “Listen,” he said, gesturing toward a pretty, red-haired student who appeared to be sitting taller in her chair than those around her. “Andrea, you’re a ballet dancer. Doesn’t it take ballet dancers long, hard hours of work to develop their skills?”
She nodded, and Ross turned to the rest of the class. “It’s the same with every art. Painting, writing, music—all of them take years of hard work and discipline to master. Hard work, discipline, and control.”
“So what?” said a student who was slouching down in his chair.
“So what?” Ben asked. “I’ll show you. Suppose I could prove to you that you can create power through discipline. Suppose we could do it right here in this classroom. What would you say to that?”
Ross had expected another wisecrack, and he was surprised when it didn’t come. Instead the students were becoming interested and curious. Ben went behind his desk and pulled his wooden chair in front of the room so that all the students could see it.
“All right,” he said. “Discipline begins with posture. Amy come up here for a minute.”
As Amy rose, Brian mumbled, “Teacher’s pet.” Normally that would have been enough to start the entire class laughing, but only a few chuckled. The rest ignored him. Everyone was wondering what their teacher was up to.
As Amy sat in the chair at the front of the room, Ben instructed her on how to sit. “Place your hands flat across the small of your back and force your spine straight up. There, can’t you breathe more easily?”
Around the classroom, many of the students were imitating the position they saw Amy taking. But even though they were sitting straighter, some couldn’t help finding it humorous. David was the next to try his hand at a joke: “Is this history, or did I come to phys ed by mistake?” he asked. A few kids laughed, but still tried to improve their posture.
“Come on, David,” Ben said. “Give it a try. We’ve had enough wise-guy remarks.”
Grudgingly David pushed himself up straight in his chair. Meanwhile their teacher walked down each aisle, checking the posture of each student. It was amazing, Ross thought. Somehow he’d hooked them. Why, even Robert …
“Class,” Ben announced, “I want everyone to see how Robert’s legs are parallel. His ankles are locked, his knees are bent at ninety degrees. See how straight his spine is. Chin tucked in, head up. That’s very good, Robert.”
Robert, the class nerd, looked up at his teacher and smiled briefly, then returned to his stiff upright position. Around the room the other students tried to copy him.
Ben returned to the front of the classroom. “All right. Now I want you all to get up and walk around the room. When I give the command, I want you to return to your seats as quickly as possible and assume the proper seating posture. Come on, everyone, up, up, up.”
The students stood up and started wandering around the room. Ben knew he couldn’t let them go too long or they’d lose their concentration on the exercise, so he quickly said, “Ta
ke your seats!”
The students dashed back to their seats. There were bumps and grunts as a few ran into each other, and around the room some kids laughed, but the dominant sound was the loud scraping of chair legs as the kids sat down.
In the front of the room, Ben shook his head. “That was the most disorganized mess I’ve ever seen. This isn’t duck, duck, goose, this is an experiment in movement and posture. Now come on, let’s try it again. This time without the chatter. The quicker and more controlled you are, the faster you will be able to reach your seats properly. Okay? Now, everyone, up!”
For the next twenty minutes the class practiced getting out of their seats, wandering around in apparent disorganization and then, at their teacher’s command, quickly returning to their seats and the correct seated posture. Ben shouted orders more like a drill sergeant than a teacher. Once they seemed to have mastered quick and correct seating, he threw in a new twist. They would still leave their seats and return. But now they would return from the hallway and Ross would time them with a stopwatch.
On the first try, it took forty-eight seconds. The second time they were able to do it in half a minute. Before the last attempt, David had an idea.
“Listen,” he told his classmates as they stood outside in the hall waiting for Mr. Ross’s signal. “Let’s line up in the order of who has to go the farthest to reach their desks inside. That way we won’t have to bump into each other.”
The rest of the class agreed. As they got into the correct order, they couldn’t help noticing that Robert was at the head of the line. “The new head of the class,” someone whispered as they waited nervously for their teacher to give them the sign. Ben snapped his fingers and the column of students moved quickly and quietly into the room. As the last student reached his seat, Ben clicked the stopwatch off. He was smiling. “Sixteen seconds.”
The class cheered.
“All right, all right, quiet down,” their teacher said, returning to the front of the room. To his surprise, the students calmed down quickly. The silence that suddenly filled the room was almost eerie. Normally the only time the room was that still, Ross thought, was when it was empty.
“Now, there are three more rules that you must obey,” he told them. “One. Everybody must have pencils and note paper for note-taking. Two. When asking or answering a question, you must stand at the side of your seats. And three. The first words you say when answering or asking a question are, ‘Mr. Ross.’ All right?”
Around the room, heads nodded.
“All right,” Mr. Ross said. “Brad, who was the British Prime Minister before Churchill?”
Still sitting at his seat, Brad chewed nervously on a fingernail. “Uh, wasn’t it—”
But before he could say more, Mr. Ross quickly cut him off. “Wrong, Brad, you already forgot the rules I just told you.” He looked across the room at Robert. “Robert, show Brad the proper procedure for answering a question.”
Instantly Robert stood up next to his desk at attention. “Mr. Ross.”
“Correct,” Mr. Ross said. “Thank you, Robert.”
“Aw, this is dumb,” Brad mumbled.
“Just because you couldn’t do it right,” someone said.
“Brad,” Mr. Ross said, “who was the Prime Minister before Churchill?”
This time Brad rose and stood beside his desk. “Mr. Ross, it was, uh, Prime Minister, uh.”
“You’re still too slow, Brad,” Mr. Ross said. “From now on, everyone make your answers as short as possible, and spit them out when asked. Now, Brad, try again.”
This time Brad snapped up beside his seat. “Mr. Ross, Chamberlain.”
Ben nodded approvingly. “Now that’s the way to answer a question. Punctual, precise, with punch. Andrea, what country did Hitler invade in September of 1939?”
Andrea, the ballet dancer, stood stiffly by her desk. “Mr. Ross, I don’t know.”
Mr. Ross smiled. “Still, a good response because you used proper form. Amy, do you know the answer?”
Amy hopped up beside her desk. “Mr. Ross, Poland.”
“Excellent,” Mr. Ross said. “Brian, what was the name of Hitler’s political party?”
Brian quickly got out of his chair. “Mr. Ross, the Nazis.”
Mr. Ross nodded. “That’s good, Brian. Very quick. Now, does anyone know the official name of the party? Laurie?”
Laurie Saunders stood up beside her desk. “The National Socialist—”
“No!” There was a sharp bang as Mr. Ross struck his desktop with a ruler. “Now do it again correctly.”
Laurie sat down, a confused look on her face. What had she done wrong? David leaned over and whispered in her ear. Oh, right. She stood up again. “Mr. Ross, the National Socialist German Workers’ Party.”
“Correct,” Mr. Ross replied.
Mr. Ross kept asking questions, and around the room students jumped to attention, eager to show that they knew both the answer and the correct form with which to give it. It was a far cry from the normally casual atmosphere of the classroom, but neither Ben nor his students reflected on that fact. They were too caught up in this new game. The speed and precision of each question and answer were exhilarating. Soon Ben was perspiring as he shouted each question out and another student rose sharply beside his or her desk to shout back a terse reply.
“Peter, who proposed the Lend-Lease Act?”
“Mr. Ross, Roosevelt.”
“Right. Eric, who died in the death camps?”
“Mr. Ross, the Jews.”
“Anyone else, Brad?”
“Mr. Ross, gypsies, homosexuals, and the feeble-minded.”
“Good. Amy, why were they murdered?”
“Mr. Ross, because they weren’t part of the superior race.”
“Correct. David, who ran the death camps?”
“Mr. Ross, the S.S.”
“Excellent!”
Out in the hall, the bells were ringing, but no one in the classroom moved from their seat. Still carried by the momentum of the class’s progress that period, Ben stood at the front of the room and issued the final order of the day. “Tonight, finish reading chapter seven and read the first half of chapter eight. That’s all, class dismissed.” Before him the class rose in what seemed like a single movement and rushed out into the hall.
“Wow, that was weird, man, it was like a rush,” Brian gasped in uncharacteristic enthusiasm. He and some of the students from Mr. Ross’s class were standing in a tight pack in the corridor, still riding on the energy they’d felt in the classroom.
“I’ve never felt anything like that before,” said Eric beside him.
“Well, it sure beats taking notes,” Amy cracked.
“Yeah,” Brian said. He and a couple of other students laughed.
“Hey, but don’t knock it,” David said. “That was really different. It was like, when we all acted together, we were more than just a class. We were a unit. Remember what Mr. Ross said about power? I think he was right. Didn’t you feel it?”
“Aw, you’re taking it too seriously,” said Brad behind him.
“Yeah?” David said. “Well then, how do you explain it?”
Brad shrugged. “What’s to explain? Ross asked questions, we answered them. It was like any other class except we had to sit up straight and stand next to our desks. I think you’re making a big deal out of nothing.”
“I don’t know, Brad,” David said as he turned and left the pack of students.
“Where’re you going?” Brian asked.
“The John,” David answered. “Catch up to you in the cafeteria.”
“Okay,” Brian said.
“Hey, remember to sit up straight,” Brad said, and the others laughed.
David pushed through the door to the men’s room. He really wasn’t sure if Brad was right or not. Maybe he was making a big deal out of nothing, but on the other hand, there had been that feeling, that group unity. Maybe it didn’t make that much difference in the classroom. A
fter all, you were just answering questions. But suppose you took that group feeling, that high energy feeling, and got the football team into it. There were some good athletes on the team, it made David mad that they had such a bad record. They really weren’t that bad—they were just undermotivated and disorganized. David knew that if he could ever get the team even half as charged up as Mr. Ross’s history class had been that day, they could tear apart most of the teams in their league.
Inside the john, David heard the second bell ring, warning students that the next period was about to begin. He stepped out of a stall and was heading to the sinks when he saw someone and stopped abruptly. The bathroom had emptied out and only one person was left, Robert. He was standing in front of a mirror, tucking in his shirt, unaware that he wasn’t alone. As David watched, the class loser straightened some of the hair on his head and stared at his reflection. Then he snapped to attention and his lips moved silently, as if he was still in Mr. Ross’s class answering questions.
David stood motionless as Robert practiced the move again. And again.
Late that night in their bedroom, Christy Ross sat on the side of the bed in her red nightgown and brushed her long auburn hair. Near her Ben was pulling his pajamas out of a drawer. “You know,” he said, “I would have thought they’d all hate it, being ordered around and forced to sit straight and recite answers. Instead they took to it like they’d been waiting for something like this their whole lives. It was weird.”
“Don’t you think they were just playing it like a game?” Christy asked. “Simply competing with each other to see who could be the fastest and straightest?”
“I’m sure that was part of it,” Ben told his wife. “But even a game is something you either choose to play or not to play. They didn’t have to play that game, but they wanted to. The strangest thing was, once we started I could feel them wanting more. They wanted to be disciplined. And each time they mastered one discipline, they wanted another. When the bell rang at the end of the period and they were still in their seats, I knew it meant more to them than just a game.”
The Wave Page 3